Confusion
by GreenwoodElf27
Summary: Sherlock falls into a mysterious depression several months after saving Irene in Karachi.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello :) This is just kind of a thing...I got random inspiration and viola, here it is. :) I don't know how long it will be...I'll just have to see.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, and this is not mean for profit.**

"No," said Sherlock, not looking up from his paper.

"You need to get out of the house. Lestrade has a case he wants you to look at, I'd say it's probably a 5 or a 6. Possibly even a 7. Go. Now," John said. He meant to sound as though he couldn't be argued with, but there was a slight note of pleading in his voice. Sherlock hadn't eaten in two days, and hadn't slept in more. He only drank when Mrs. Hudson slyly put tea in front of him when he was occupied with something else, and he sipped it absent –mindedly. He never left the flat. Instead, he sat on the couch, alternately staring at the wall, pacing, reading the paper, and composing very odd melodies on his violin. The music was beautiful, as always, but there was an odd undertone in all of the pieces, something John had never heard before.

It had started a week ago. Since then Sherlock had slept a total of twelve hours and eaten only five meals. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor John had any idea what happened or why. It was while Mrs. Hudson was out. John had come home from the hospital one day, his head full of his latest girlfriend. Then he had opened the door, and all thoughts fled his mind.

There was the sound of a violin. Sherlock was playing again. That wasn't uncommon, of course. It wasn't just his playing. It was the piece he was playing. John froze, listening intently, hoping desperately that he was wrong. More bittersweet notes floated down the stairs, chasing all doubts from his mind.

It was Her. The piece he had written when She had faked her death so well it had fooled both Holmes brothers. He had run up the stairs, his eyes wide. He paused in front of the door apprehensively, then opened the door. There was a figure silhouetted in the window.

He was standing there, staring out the window at the streets below, his grey eyes cold.

"Sherlock?" he had said, the word a question. The figure had made no response. John did not try again. At least, not that night.

"Dull," said Sherlock. The word sharp, punctuated. "The case is simple. Lestrade needs the practice, he can solve it."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, a wave of frustration, anger, and helplessness washing over him. Sherlock still did not look up from his paper.

"No." There was something about the way he said it, something completely definite, something no one could argue with. John took a deep breath to soothe his irritation and worry. It did very little. He thought about disobeying his tone and arguing, but it didn't seem like a good idea. Sherlock had shifted so that his back was to him, still reading the paper. John paused for a moment, thinking, then turned and took his jacket from its hook.

"Right, I'm going out. Don't wait up," he said. He walked toward the door, his hand inches from the doorknob. He turned to look at the figure behind him, shook his head, and left. He nearly ran into Mycroft, who was coming up the stairs, his movements more agitated than John had ever seen them. Mycroft barely took notice of him, and instead pushed past him and wrenched the door open.

**Thank you so much for reading :) I hope you liked it. I know this isn't very long, but I think next additions will be longer. Review are very much appreciated. :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry this took so long! I forgot about finals when I posted the other one. Now I have a bit more free time, and can probably post more regularly :D**

**To everyone who reviewed: Thank you so much! :D I'm sorry I haven't had the time to reply to each of you personally. I promise I will!**

**This was a really hard chapter to write. Sherlock and Mycroft are not the easiest characters to write for, especially if you're trying to keep them in character when writing about them involved with things about which we're not sure how they might react to. I hope I did alright :P  
**

**Disclaimer: see first chapter.**

He heard the door click shut as John left. The sound almost completely concealed the distinct creak that the external door made when it was opened, but not quite. He froze, still holding the paper, and listened intently to the sounds emanating from the stairwell. One set of footsteps, the set belonging to the person at the bottom, ascended the stairs quickly, purposefully-almost hurriedly. He listened as they collided with John's on the tenth step from the bottom. John's froze, then shuffled a bit on the same step, but John himself said nothing. Ah, it was Mycroft, then. Mycroft's steps barely paused at the point of collision before continuing up the stairs. He was obviously rather troubled about something or other. Sherlock did not have enough data to figure it out and did not waste the brain space with it. He was obviously about to find out.

Now that Sherlock had figured out who his visitor was, he focused on the newspaper once more. He continued flip through it as he had been for the past ten to twenty minutes, scanning the headlines and stopping at times to glance through a moderately promising article. In the back of his mind he counted Mycroft's footsteps as he ascended the last seven steps. He noted with slight unease that his brother paused momentarily, after reaching the top, before opening the door, as if he needed a moment's preparation for a particularly strenuous ordeal.

Now curious, Sherlock ran through the events that happened in the last week for oddities that he might have missed, something that may have signified that one of his recent cases had been something that Mycroft would be interested in, or might have been the result of something Mycroft ordered. He did not expect to see anything he hadn't before, but he checked anyway. A split second later, his memory scan was done, and Mycroft had yet to open the door. Extremely inquisitive, he did not allow his brother to put it off any longer.

"Good morning, Mycroft. Do come in. Has the Queen fallen ill again?" The door opened and Mycroft walked in, his expression and body language revealing not an ounce of the flustered emotions that had permeated his footsteps. Even Sherlock might have missed the signs in a stranger. But Mycroft was not a stranger, and therefore Sherlock missed nothing. Where the common person would see only authority, logical intelligence, and complete confidence, Sherlock saw the frustrated way his brother's eyebrows were set, the agitation in the curve of his mouth, and the worry behind the mask in his eyes. No, not just worry. There was something else the detective couldn't place, something he did not remember seeing before.

"No, Sherlock. I would _never_ come to you for help with the Queen," he said, his voice calm and smooth, infused with its normal extreme confidence. Sherlock, however, detected a slight edge in his tone that did not usually exist. Extremely curious now, he ran through the possible courses of action that would gain him the information. Generally a lack of interest or an obvious feint of interest extracted information from his brother the fastest. Knowing that Mycroft would usually have a decent chance at seeing through his acting, and taking into account the degree of his agitation, he calculated his brother would most likely not penetrate his mask. He sighed indifferently and turned away, betraying none of the curiosity that burned within him.

It was with considerable difficulty that he completed these calculations and acted upon them. There was something about the way Mycroft was standing, something about that shadow behind his eyes, that made something akin to worry and another emotion he could not place well up in his heart. It was very distracting. This in addition to the feelings that had been infiltrating his mind since-

He stopped himself before he thought about it. Or at least, before he consciously thought about it. He knew that his subconscious dwelt upon it constantly. For the first day, it had been his conscious mind that had focused on it, turning if over and trying to understand.

"Sherlock!" cried Mycroft, shaking him gratefully from his reflections. He turned to his brother and, with bizarre difficulty, focused on his face. Mycroft responded by visibly relaxing. One would not have been able to tell, if one had seen him either "tense" or "relaxed," that he was either, but during the act of switching between the two positions it was clearly visible.

"Yes?" he replied smoothly, ignoring the thoughts and emotions that were swirling around in his mind.

"You weren't listening, Sherlock."

"Yes of course. Begin again," he said. He saw the look on his brother's face and sighed. "I am sorry, Mycroft, begin again, _please_." His brother gave him a withering look. It was comfortingly familiar, amidst the strange worry.

"Fine. Well-" he paused. "I might as well start at the beginning." Sherlock rolled his eyes, a bit impatient.

"Yes, that would be the logical order of things," he replied mockingly.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice held a note of warning. "Well, it begins with-" he paused again, as if it was difficult to form the next words in his mouth.

* * *

"Yes?" asked Sherlock, his tone almost eager. In the back of his mind, Mycroft noted that his brother's character was completely different. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his fingertips pressed together, his unconcerned manner gone. His pale grey eyes were fixed on him, slightly narrowed in concentration. In another mindset, Mycroft would have acted on the suspicions that welled up automatically in his mind. He was not, however, ready to do any such thing.

This was difficult. He had not guessed how trying it would be. Nothing like this had every happened before. It was new, uncharted territory, and there was no data at all. The complete absence of data made Mycroft ever so slightly uneasy, and he was a very rarely uneasy.

The most interesting, if slightly irritating part, however, was the fact that he did not know what Sherlock's reaction would be. He had no idea. Mycroft _**never**_ had no idea. He _always_ knew, or at least, had a guess, and his guesses were nearly always right. It was his profession to know. He could even manipulate Sherlock at times, although he was occasionally caught in that particular endeavor. It was a new experience not to know. It was rather intriguing.

It was the texts from John, however, that worried him a bit. For a week now, there had been a near-constant stream of them, constantly updating the details of Sherlock's condition. They began softly, quietly but firmly explaining the situation, then, when his responses were deemed inadequate and far too few, changed into loud, persistent cries to try to get his attention. He read each of them carefully, but put off going to Sherlock. These spells were frequent since She had died, so it did not worry him immediately. It appeared, however, that he ought to trust John's knowledge of his brother's habits more, because halfway through the week he caught wind of-

* * *

There was something in Mycroft's tone. Something that was not usually there. He sat forward in his seat, dropping all pretenses and eagerly awaiting a response. Despite the fact that he was waiting for it, when it came, it was sudden.

"Irene Adler. She's is back. It appears that she was not, in fact, involved permanently in-" He paused for a moment, probably trying to remember the fiction he had tried to feed Sherlock through John. "the witness protection scheme in America. She has returned. She has a new name, but she only uses it formally. Her purpose for returning is not yet clear."

He froze. He wasn't ready. He needed more time. He had barely had time to do a thing. He _**had**_ to have more time to prepare. Unasked-for, a flood of bizarrely conflicting emotions plagued his mind, obstructing his calculations. He took a breath and shook his head to rid his mind of the depressing disorder. Mycroft was here.

He had known it was going to happen, but the fact that it had interested his brother perplexed him. He ran through the options that fit all of the facts. None of them appeared to make sense. His brother hadn't mentioned that she'd done anything, or planned on doing anything. Why was Mycroft here? His brother had nearly been ruined by her several months previously, but it was almost impossible that she had gotten her hands on more of that particular sort of delicate data in that span of time. But then, why did he come to Sherlock? It made no sense. It was rather worrying, considering her actual reasons for returning.

No, of course not. He was overthinking it. He internally scolded himself for being so stupid. Of course. Mycroft had found, in the most definite way possible, that his information was wrong. He permitted himself a moments' satisfaction. Because of his timely and very successful intervention, Irene had not been beheaded in Karachi. He almost cringed at the thought, but thought it unwise under the circumstances.

* * *

Mycroft watched his brother carefully as he spoke. Sherlock's immediate reaction was to stop moving, and his eyes darkened with some bizarre inner turmoil. Mycroft sighed at his brother's disadvantage. He had never had such problems, but his brother had never learned. Suddenly, shaking his head, his brother's eyes paled to their usual stormy grey. They focused on Mycroft and narrowed slightly. Without warning, a tiny smirk of self-satisfaction flitted across his face. Mycroft's eyebrows knit. What on earth was his brother grinning about?

"So, Mycroft, your pretty little adversary has come back to England haunt you. If she is no longer a threat, why do you care?" asked Sherlock pointedly, his eyes displaying the smirk that had disappeared from his features moments before.

Mycroft grimaced. He found it extremely distasteful to admit to his mistakes, especially when the mistakes were specifically his. He had looked into the matter personally, as he had told John previously, and had thought there was no room for mistakes. He braced himself.

"We thought she was dead," said Mycroft, with effort. Sherlock's eyes sparkled mischievously, but his other features displayed nothing.

"You mean _you_ thought she was dead," he replied slightly smugly. Mycroft cringed visibly. He intensely disliked being wrong.

"Fine. I did. I checked in every manner available to me, and in all cases she appeared to have been beheaded in Karachi several months previously," he said, irritation touching his voice. "I even personally examined the body. We all thought she was actually dead." Sherlock smirked.

"I know you did," he said.

"How did you do it?" asked Mycroft, exasperated.

"Simple, Mycroft. I believe you will recognize the technique. You appear to use it quite often. I, how shall I put this, placed the right amount of money in the hands of the right people? Irene suggested she use her particular form of…_currency_," he accented the word, his tongue carefully forming each syllable, "but I managed to dissuade her from it. I figured it was best she didn't attract unnecessary attention to herself now that she had finally put her killers off of her scent." He spoke indifferently, but Mycroft's ears detected a slight edge in his voice. Hearing this, he sighed exasperatedly. His brother was so emotional. Now that he was sure that Sherlock was not in immediate danger of suicide, the worry was gone.

* * *

Sherlock's mind was in an uncomfortably uncertain state. He could still form intelligent thoughts (For example, in the back of his mind, he noted that Mycroft no longer showed any signs of agitation), but everything was slightly fuzzy. He shook his head in an unsuccessful attempt to rid himself of the irritating distraction.

It had been very strange to say her name. He hadn't spoken it in months, simply calling her "The Woman" to dispel doubts. The syllables had rolled smoothly off his tongue. It had reminded him of the events that happened some time ago, before Karachi, on New Year's Day. The sound of Mycroft's voice interrupted his bizarre reflections, but he did not catch what he had said.

"What?" Sherlock asked, blinking. It appeared that he had been staring fixedly out the window, into the grey streets of London. Mycroft sent him an annoyed expression.

"I said, 'Actually, except for in extreme cases, we manage to extract the desired performance without depleting the British treasury too much.'"

"Yes, I'm sure," replied Sherlock sarcastically. "Is the phrase 'extreme cases' a synonym for 'everything' now? How interesting." Mycroft started to reply impatiently, then paused, as if counting to ten internally to dispel irritation.

"I am not in the mood discuss the subtleties of politics with you, Sherlock, they're much too delicate for your brusque tongue."

"I'm sure you aren't. And speaking of delicacies, how much weight have you lost, Mycroft? Or have you given up on that particular business venture?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I must say that my weight is not the affair of the government," he said. "Therefore it isn't exactly a business venture."

Sherlock needed to focus. He needed quiet. He had no idea what to do. Why had she come so early? Why hadn't she given him any warning? The plan hadn't specified a time, nonetheless he expected more. As a quick and effective solution, he decided to play a few tunes on the violin.

"I wasn't actually speaking of the government. I was referring to the amount of food that you are currently refraining from eating. Whatever retailer you previously bought your single-man feasts from must be going out of business," he said, rising from his seat and moving fluidly toward his violin. He picked it up, plucked each of the strings, and made a few tiny adjustments to the pegs. He glanced at Mycroft, who was watching his progress with an expression of distaste. He sighed resignedly as Sherlock held the violin up to his neck, and, making a show of readying the bow, began playing a jaunty Celtic melody.

"I doubt my portions, which are likely quite meager compared to your hyperbolic description, or any change in them, have much altered anyone's daily wages," said Mycroft softly, just so Sherlock wouldn't have the last word. Then he said, "Is that really necessary, Sherlock? You could just ask me to leave, you know." Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he finished the Celtic tune on a high note and began a pretty Bach air. Mycroft gave his brother a dark look and left.

After his brother was out of earshot, the sweet notes of the air transformed into the forlorn strains of the piece he had written when he had thought Irene was dead.

**Phew! I hope that was okay. Sherlock and Mycroft are really, really hard to write for. :)**

**Special thanks to my unofficial beta, IBelieveinSherlock.**

**I hope you enjoyed it! Please, please review! :D**


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